


John's Favourite Kind of Afternoon

by autumnalbee (redherring)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Exhibitionism, Food Kink, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Medical Kink, Mild BDSM, Military Kink, roleplaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/autumnalbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is John’s favourite kind of afternoon: in 221b, warm and homey just after a case, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and a cock in his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Favourite Kind of Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into porny things. It starts as semi-crack, and then gets a bit more serious towards the end.
> 
> Massive, massive thank you to [Shirley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleycarlton) for being patient enough to read draft after draft (after draft after draft!) and for holding my hand through all this. You are a saint!

This is John’s favourite kind of afternoon: in 221b, warm and homey just after a case, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and a cock in his mouth.

Sherlock Holmes’ cock, to be precise.

No finer penis exists on the planet. John loves how his mouth stretches around its girth perfectly, and how the length is just enough to hit the back of his throat with his lips at the base. They are a perfect fit, his mouth and Sherlock’s cock.

There’s hardly a surface in the flat John hasn’t blown Sherlock on or against. The sofa, the kitchen worktop, the coffee table, the dining table, all four walls in the sitting room, against the bookcase—they’ve all been christened with spit and come via every position imaginable.

The first time it happened, neither man had anticipated it. They had just chased a suspected serial killer through the Baker Street station and down four blocks. Although they lost the suspect, they giggled all the way up the stairs to their own flat with smiles and shared glances. A gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder led to a smouldering gaze, and after a few more touches, the door was slammed shut and John had Sherlock’s trousers and pants down at his ankles.

Since then, Sherlock has only needed to glance at John the right way and his cock is immediately sheathed in hot wetness. John adores showering Sherlock’s cock with attention, so much so that he can never keep his hand off himself in the process. Sherlock is hardly ever allowed to reciprocate because John more often than not finishes tossing himself off to completion before Sherlock’s brain can even reboot.

They don’t have a romantic relationship, per se, but the oral led to sex in other forms—or, rather, every form imaginable.

Their adventures have not, however, led to either of their bedrooms. They never specifically planned to exclude their rooms from all the fun, but Sherlock and John simply don’t ever seem to make it further than the sitting room or the kitchen before their clothes just _have_ to be on the floor. There isn’t a rule that forbids them from going there; Sherlock’s just never seemed interested, and John isn’t going to push it, although he does entertain the fantasy on occasion. Because of that, they sleep in their separate bedrooms, and their sexual activities are limited to the rest of the flat. Much as John would like things to go further, what they have works perfectly fine, and he isn’t going to risk ruining it.

Although there’s an absence of romance in their relationship, John eventually discovered that he can get away with a quick kiss so long as it isn’t in public. When it _is_ in public, Sherlock turns a bright red, and whenever they arrive home, John immediately gets his mouth fucked until his lips match the colour of Sherlock’s cheeks and saliva is running down his chin.

Most of the time, he kisses Sherlock in public on purpose.

There are many occasions, however, in which John is the one who initiates the fellatio. In these instances, Sherlock often doesn’t get a warning.

One time that is especially burnt into John’s mind was when Sherlock was having a horrid sulk. He hadn’t showered in days, and, having tried everything else at his disposal, John decided on a shock tactic. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, sat him upright on the sofa, spread his legs apart, had his pyjama bottoms down, and took Sherlock’s entire cock in his mouth faster than Sherlock could form words. Needless to say, John was rather chuffed at having discovered this new way of getting his partner to snap out of it. He was not so thrilled, however, when Sherlock started having an increasing number of sulks. Not all of them seemed genuine, but John indulged every single one.  

Since Sherlock detests being kissed in public, John assumed for quite a while that he hated public sex, too.

Oh, how wrong he’d been.

He really shouldn’t have been so shocked, what with Sherlock’s suspense addiction, when Sherlock suddenly pulled him away from a crime scene into a nearby alley. John had barely crouched down before Sherlock had himself in hand, ready for a mouth.

Still, when Sherlock’s body stiffened under John’s hands and he turned to see Lestrade gaping at them from the end of the street, it _did_ make things a bit awkward. John couldn’t look Greg in the eye for a solid month after that, and almost every time he saw the D.I., he was reminded of that incident and somehow managed to blush and get hard at the same time.

A more recent discovery was Sherlock’s military kink. Now, John isn’t typically one for that sort of thing; prior to Sherlock, he’d found it unsavoury and refused to involve any of his past service with sex. It just didn’t sit right with him. But for whatever reason, when he found the 1980s military magazine Sherlock had stashed away in an old trunk, he decided to surprise him. The dog tags fit comfortably under his jumper, and he didn’t even remember putting them on that morning until both men were undressed, Sherlock’s pupils blown wide as he caught sight of the small circles hanging around John’s neck. For a moment, John thought _he_ was the one who’d be getting the blow job; the intense look in Sherlock’s eyes definitely supported his conclusion. However, Sherlock immediately quieted that suspicion by staring him down harshly and commanding, “On your knees, soldier,” in the lowest register John had ever heard.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Somehow, Sherlock once managed to actually fit two different kinks into one experience. They’d been exchanging texts all day, but after John complained about how slow it was at the surgery, Sherlock had stopped replying. Half an hour later, his office door opened to reveal a blond-haired man dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. His huge glasses covered most of his face, but he had suspiciously well-defined cheekbones that made John do a double-take. He complained of a persistent erection, and then insisted that he needed John’s help to quell it. The situation might have been sexier if John wasn’t laughing so hard at Sherlock’s horrible Scottish accent, or if 69ing on his desk wasn’t so damned uncomfortable. Either way, they never tried roleplaying or fucking in John’s office again; Sherlock was apparently not fond of the giggles and jokes elicited from John at the suggestion of a repeat.

Although a lot of Sherlock’s ideas aren’t all that successful (John tried for weeks to forget about the incident with the chemical spill), the one John enjoyed the most was the one he originally considered to be the worst. John was reading in the sitting room, minding his own business, when suddenly a half-hard, honey-coated penis was thrust in his face. He very nearly shoved Sherlock away before he lost his balance, accidentally leaning forward until his nose made contact with the honey. They looked up at each other, exchanged a grin, and, since he already had honey on his face, John went at it. Not only was it the sweetest orgasm John had ever tasted, but Sherlock demanded to reciprocate, keeping John’s hands away from his own cock. It was strange for John, being the one to receive and not give, but Christ, if Sherlock didn’t have an amazing mouth. And if he let Sherlock suck him off slightly more often after the incident, well, Sherlock never seemed to mind.

And who could forget the time they tried a bit of Dom/sub play? Sherlock had got it in his head that they simply _had_ to experiment with it and came home one day with a paper bag full of toys and restraints. He blindfolded John, then tied him up with a soft leather harness that secured his arms behind his back and had an extra length at his neck to serve as a lead. By the time the bloody thing was tied around him (and it took a long while), the sensory deprivation combined with Sherlock’s hands all over John’s body was enough to do him in. Sherlock didn’t even have to pull the lead before John was on him against the wall, laving at the head of his cock for every last drop of pre-come. They nearly ditched the BDSM thing, though, after Sherlock managed to almost run off on a new case without getting John out of his harness and blindfold first. John insisted they try again, however, sometime without any distractions.

Although they haven’t yet had a chance to use the restraints again, he is _definitely_ looking forward to it.

But now.

Every once in a while, when the mood is right and the planets align just so, everything is perfect. No mishaps, no funny business, nothing extraneous, just the two of them—and something else, something not quite palpable. John only experienced a few such instances in his life, but when he did, he never forgot.

This is one of those times; he can feel it.

They’ve spent the entire day running from Scotland Yard to crime scenes and back to Scotland Yard again. Sherlock was nearly shot by a wild assassin, and John just barely avoided being kidnapped by the man the assassin was hired to kill. Tensions have been high—at least, until they arrived home, and John melted into Sherlock’s arms as he was pushed roughly against the wall and had his brains snogged out. Somehow they ended up in Sherlock’s bedroom, uncharted territory for them, where their clothes are tossed haphazardly on the floor.

Sherlock falls back onto the bed, dragging John along with him.

The expression on Sherlock’s face is soft, almost tender, and there’s something glowing in his eyes that John can’t quite place. Sherlock is usually painfully predictable with his reactions and expressions during sex; John has committed most of them to memory.

He’s never seen this one before.

It gives him a strange hope for a moment, but he regains his focus and moves on.

John’s eyes flit across the rest of Sherlock’s body. He looks beautiful; wide expanses of pale skin against bone and tendon. John wants to touch every inch of him—but that would be for later. For now, he settles for kisses, soft and tentative at first, gradually developing into something deeper, something more determined.

John pulls away after a while and positions himself between Sherlock’s legs, sitting on his knees. He gives Sherlock’s cock a few quick pumps, then takes a testicle into his mouth with a mixture of light suction and a couple of teasing licks. After a few moments he moves on to the other one, glancing up at Sherlock. He’s still looking at John with that new expression, and it sends a wave of goosebumps across John’s body as he quickly transitions his mouth to Sherlock’s cock.

John knows what Sherlock likes. He’s spent the last six months learning every inch of him. One lick up from the root to the head, then suckling on the glans for the pre-come before taking him halfway. Back up to the glans, making progress centimetres at a time before pulling back off and then down again. He glances upwards every once in a while, ensuring Sherlock is watching him closely before speeding up and then slowing down again.

When Sherlock starts mewling softly, John takes him whole, his nose nestled in the tuft of hair around Sherlock’s base as he gags softly around him. He’s bobbing his head as quickly as possible, sometimes stopping halfway up, sometimes almost releasing Sherlock entirely. He looks up at Sherlock with furrowed brows, and Sherlock murmurs, “John,” as he covers his face with his arm and throws his head back against the pillow.

Sherlock tenses just slightly, and John knows it’s about to happen. He also knows what Sherlock usually looks like at this point, and…he doesn’t look the same. He’s moved his arm away, that soft expression still on his face, and his eyes are trained on John, not wavering for a moment.

John begins to sense that this time is different, that it’s special. Maybe he’s reading too far into the look Sherlock’s been giving him, and maybe he isn’t, but he suddenly feels the overwhelming need to let Sherlock know that he is loved, that John loves him to the ends of the earth and back. Though the words are hard to form, John can try to show him, and sod the risk.

He pulls off, making a wet popping sound as he does so. He leans over to kiss Sherlock softly, his lips mouthing the words he can’t say.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

Sherlock bucks his hips, looking for the friction that was suddenly taken from him, and John redirects his attention. He takes Sherlock entirely, but twists on the upstrokes and slows his pace dramatically. The long, low growl that comes next is one that John’s never heard before, and Sherlock’s breath turns into short gasps as he slides a hand through John’s hair. His pace becomes uneven, and John’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing because all he can think of is

_Lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove—_

And Sherlock is coming, and John can’t believe it because he is, too, and it hasn’t even been very long, but _oh god_ , if it isn’t the best orgasm he’s ever had. He’s been so focused on Sherlock and the look on his face that he hasn’t yet reached a hand down to pay attention to himself. John never thought it would have even been possible for him to peak without any stimulation, but it hits him hard, and before he knows it, he’s seeing stars. Every inch of his body is hypersensitive to every little sensation—the small brush of air against his cock, the sound of Sherlock’s heavy breathing, the tang of come in his mouth, the softness of Egyptian cotton sheets. Usually his orgasms feel as though he’s been booted off a mountain, but this time, it’s as though he’s been pushed off Mount Everest by a train. He’s floating on air, slowly tumbling back to earth, to home, to Sherlock.

Meanwhile, he swallows every drop of Sherlock’s come and lazily licks his cock clean, not bothering to clean himself just yet. John then nuzzles his face in the space between Sherlock’s thigh and his cock and hums contentedly. He can hear the blood pumping through Sherlock’s body, can feel the pace decrease and his breathing slow.

He closes his eyes. Sherlock strokes John’s hair absentmindedly before pulling himself up to a sitting position. John rolls over to the other side of the bed with a soft sigh, and Sherlock turns to look at him, the same tender expression on his face.

They stare at each other intently for a few moments, and it feels as though everything’s faded away except for the two of them. Sherlock closes the gap and kisses John, finally whispering the words John never thought he’d hear against his lips.

“I love you, too."


End file.
